


One Secret Meant To Keep You Safe

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Hope Was A Word, Just A Glimmer Of The Blade [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Depends on how you look at it, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Ghost Qui-Gon Jinn, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love, M/M, Making Love, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Moral Dilemmas, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Protectiveness, Rescue Missions, Tusken Raiders (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 20:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Tasked with rescuing Luke and Beru from a rogue band of Tusken raiders, Obi-Wan hopes that their return, safe and sound, will foster some sort of working alliance with Owen: that the reluctant player in a desperate plot will not continue to hold him at such a distance from Luke's life. The boy is, after all, growing up quickly--and Obi-Wan has seen before the disastrous effects late training can have. If he can help it, if he has any say at all, the sins of the father will not be visited upon the son.Unfortunately, Owen has no great love for the Jedi--and he doesn't want to lose the boy who's become the child he and Beru never could have.Or: "I swear that everything will be alright."





	One Secret Meant To Keep You Safe

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I had a dream of this story. The entire plot, minus the end, all rolled up into a single, very lucid dream. I believe that's only happened once before, and it inspired a different fic of mine . . . The end, meanwhile, was just something I really wanted to write. Fanfic, for me, is often therapeutic (for many reasons), and exploring the ways in which people can love one another is the whole of why I write love scenes in the first place.
> 
> Anyway, the stories are getting more and more intertwined; I'd suggest reading the first two if you haven't already. :)
> 
> Here's my usual "half-baked canon" warning. No idea how to tag this . . . and I've decided to toss this into the categories of both the Prequels and the OT because it sort of straddles both . . . ?
> 
> No real lyrical inspiration here. Just the dream. But the title's from Paradise Fears' "Sanctuary"--not that the song really has anything to do with the story itself.
> 
> Comments are always welcome, and I do hope you enjoy! <3 (Please pardon any typos!)

_She has never seen Luke quite as calm as when this strange man from the stars held him . . . even today . . . amidst the terror . . . had he not watched that dancing blade of light with nothing but awe?_

* * *

The night has been strangely quiet, if not still, for nights on Tatooine are never still. The moisture farm at the foot of the dune, beyond the Jundland Wastes, lies dormant and dark, and the suns begin their daily chase across the sky, blood-red—but for once there was no bloodshed to earn them such a shade. There were no tremors through the Force, no cries of terror cut—the sudden silences worse, almost, than the cries themselves. Obi-Wan turns away at last, casting twin shadows in the eerie haze as he begins the journey back to his hermitage, satisfied that his night’s work is done.

For years now, the Tusken raiders have been predictable: they will strike under cover of darkness, when the inhabitants of homesteads  are asleep. Better that than to try for cammouflage in broad daylight, when said inhabitants are more likely scattered, alert, their fingers quick with a blaster’s trigger . . . Which isn’t to say that Tatooine’s only threats are raiders: no: lawless vagabonds, bored with Mos Eisley or Anchorhead or under the pay of Jabba to settle a score, employ the same tactics. Yes: the same it is on all worlds: darkness becomes the friend of any who deal, unskilled, in deceit, concealment and violence.

But the dawn has broken and Luke is safe; Owen and Beru will be up with the suns . . .

The heat of the desert builds early, and by the time Obi-Wan slips into cool refuge—meager shadows, sweating stones—sweat’s stuck his tunic to his skin. Wrinkling his nose, he peels it off and kicks free of his boots, remembering times when the rough, stale odor of prespiration wasn’t so commonplace as to become utterly unnoticed. Almost laughably his mind drops him the memory of Kamino; yes, he’d take that rain-drenched fist-fight with Jango now, no questions asked . . .

“It gladdens me to see you smiling.”

The flicker at the corner of his eye—light that isn’t light—that’s more than light—and the whisper of his Master’s voice, as clear as if Obi-Wan had spoken the words to himself.

The rueful smile he’d hardly noticed broadens as the Jedi begins poking suspiciously at the remnants of last night’s meal. The cooling unit he’d purchased from some junk dealer in Mos Eisley—or Mos Espa—or was it Anchorhead?—has turned out to have a temper: at best it keeps rations and blue milk lukewarm; at worst it shorts out completely.

“It was a quiet night. Something I’m grateful for these days.”

Obi-Wan settles himself on the floor, welcoming the last embrace of cool stone for the day, balancing a bowl of stew in one hand. Qui-Gon, shimmering, a delicate interplay of light and form, spirit and flesh, sits across from him, shaking his head slightly.

“Not for long, my Padawan. Luke is five now . . . soon enough he’ll more than keep Beru and Owen’s hands full.”

“I'm not at all opposed to being more of a presence in his life.” Obi-Wan drains the last of the salty stew’s broth, silently offering a final thanks to the creature whose body and bones had been its base. “Truthfully, I’ve been thinking of how to bring this up to both of them. They’ve seemed content enough to keep me at a distance . . . which worries me.” Thoughtfully he strokes his beard, remembering another boy—too old—

“How the Order trained initiates is no more, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon’s voice is soft—pragmatic, but not unkind. Through the Force bond between them whisper flickers of the sorrow that he will not allow to seep into his words. “The days when infants were entrusted to our care are done . . . the days when older children were special exceptions, not the rule. Perhaps that’s never how it will be again . . . But I agree: the sooner the boy understands his connection to the Force, the better.”

“I have not spoken to either Owen or Beru in at least a year. They know I protect him, of course—protect them, by extension—but . . . it’s always seemed prudent to keep something of a low profile. Aliases do not cover every track.” A frustrated sigh escapes him. “Sometimes I wonder if it was not an _obvious_ choice, bringing him here.”

Qui-Gon tilts his head. “I believe that a piece of Anakin died on this world, my Padawan, and as he buried his mother, he buried that part of himself as well. Few people wish to disturb the dead once they’re gone. I do not believe he would ever think to come back to this place . . . and certainly not . . . now. Perhaps he does not even know that Luke and Leia are alive.”

“How he cannot even feel his own son, his daughter—” Obi-Wan catches himself, cradling the growing ache in his chest; a topic better discussed, perhaps, in that dream-world, the river across all horizons, with Bant . . . “It does not matter. It is a blessing that he does not sense them through the Force.”

Slowly he rises to his feet, marveling at how his body seems to have aged so much in the mere five years. Heading off parties of Tusken raiders in the night before they reach the Lars’ has kept his skills honed and his body strong—but there is another kind of weariness settling upon him . . . Not age . . . but perhaps something like it . . . All the years of training, of missions, of duels and battles . . . perhaps these things take a cumulative toll . . . What would he have done before, but spend time at the Temple to heal his spirit and invigorate his flesh? In meditation, perhaps, or swimming with Bant in the Room of a Thousand Fountains if she wasn’t on a mission of her own—

Reflexively he pulls from his interior breast pocket the stone Qui-Gon had given him. Once, too, it had been a gift to Anakin . . . no small wonder that it had been left behind when—

“Peace, my young Padawan.”

His fingers curl around the stone, taut and trembling, reaching for its warmth, its light: such a beautiful thing, the stone: his unexpected tether to the Force . . . to his Master.

“Go and rest,” Qui-Gon offers softly. “You cannot swim in the Room of a Thousand Fountains now, but you still have a place to meet your friend.”

Obi-Wan hums a non-committal noise, pocketing the stone and deciding that he can wait to clean the empty bowl. The little niche with its stone slab that has become his bed beckons—as usual, Qui-Gon is right—

For the first time in a long time, sleep comes swiftly, and he lets himself be drawn into the gentle, rocking sway of the Force—so much like a lullaby.

* * *

He has not so much as stepped into that darkness when something pulls him from the depths—sharp, abrupt—

A child’s cry—

And a roiling, terrified disturbance in the Force—

And he wakes with Luke’s name on his lips, an echoed outcry to counter the terror: a promise flung through the Force to the boy he knows—he hopes—will hear:

_I will be there—_

* * *

The same damp and sweat-rank tunic thrown over his head—and Qui-Gon’s robe. The old utility belt strapped around his waist; in a holster is the blaster he abhors, and at his hip, his lightsaber. Obi-Wan hurtles out the door, gathering the Force around himself, feeling it flow through his muscles and sinews and bones as he sprints towards the Wastes, the dunes, the moisture farm, granting him a speed that no Human could hope to match.

* * *

He hears the raiders’ calls long before he crests the dune, the spray of blaster fire, whisps of smoke from shots struck home slipping into the glaring sky. The scene below is chaos—much damage has been done, although only five masked figures are in plain sight. In the doorway to the domed domicile stands Owen, shadowed and framed by the interplay of light, the sharp and short bursts from his blaster.

Obi-Wan drops into their midst, scanning for Beru—for Luke—

Idly he notes that shock and recognition fall across Owen’s face, temporarily shattering a mask of rage and fear; the five raiders seem more intent on destroying Owen’s equipment than dispatching the farmer himself—as if—

If they came for anything else—they already have it—

He’s heard stories of the Tuskens taking—

 _No—Beru_ —

A gaderffii stick is swung at his head; he twists, deflecting the blow and wresting the weapon from its owner. His eyes find Owen’s, begging the question, and the farmer’s broken reply is enough to chill his blood:

“They took Beru—and Luke—”

A kick to his opponent’s midsection drops the raider with a muffled grunt; a blow with the butt of his own gaderffii stick will render him unconscious, but do no lasting harm. At last Obi-Wan manages to slip to Owen’s side.

“I’ll find them—”

“Take the speeder.” Owen’s eyes are wide, are wild. “Please—”

A nod, no more, no time for more: the Tuskens are quick, determined, and merciless. All settlers are invaders, desecrating sacred places; no stories have come from their prisoners—for no one has returned. Their silence, the surety of their deaths, breeds spine-curling tales of barbarity.

“Can you hold them off?” Obi-Wan’s eyes flicker to the four remaining raiders.

“It doesn’t matter,” Owen rasps—and the depth of his love for his wife and for Luke catches the Jedi’s breath. If they are dead . . . “Just go.”

* * *

The speeder is rusted and ancient, but the controls sing at his dancing fingertips and the tracks are easy enough to follow. A single trail, always, but a trail nonetheless—and straight into the suns. Obi-Wan sets his teeth, blinking rapidly, glancing away, again, again—letting the Force far more than his sight guide him now. It would do him no favors to arrive to the camp sun-blind.

They must have struck directly at dawn, just when Owen and Beru were waking up, catching them unawares; the suns are now halfway to the zenith, the sky a rich, deep blue, the heat blistering—even the wind generated by the speeder’s acceleration offers no comfort. Obi-Wan guns the motor, willing the engine not to fight him—it sputters and catches every few moments—but still, but still, it runs.

The camp emerges at last: a collection of tents twined together with fabric and skins; the smoke of cooking fires rises to hang languidly, a smear of a shadow—foreboding. The raiders must hear the speeder approach, or else have caught the gleam of it against the horizon, for a perimeter has been set: ten warriors set to defend their tribe. There are many more, he knows, lying in wait if this living barricade should fall.

Obi-Wan holds the speeder steady, slowing the acceleration at a distance, unholstering his blaster. Just at the edge of range—

The shots are fired faster than the eye can see: precise and unflinching: he aims only to wound, not to kill, and one by one the ten slump to the sands.

The speeder is slammed to a halt, Obi-Wan vaulting over the side, past the makeshift perimeter of the camp, the fallen wounded. Blood seeps into the sand—but they will live—and wryly he can almost hear the shouts of fury from so many settlers. Why show Tusken raiders mercy? Why leave them alive when they will merely nurse their wounds and, one day, strike again?

Because he is a Jedi. Life, all life, is sacred. Even theirs. And if one day they should die in conflict with the settlers, it will not be by his hand—whether his weapon is such an uncivilized thing as a blaster or as elegant as a blade of light.

Through the Force he reaches for them—for Luke, for Beru. The boy’s life-energy reaches him instantly, calling to him, guiding him to a tent in the center of the camp. No one opposes him: curious, perhaps, unless they mean to ambush him—or perhaps the Tuskens do not care so much for a single Human boy—

The tent is dark, a single drop of light piercing down from its roof where a hole resides—whether intentionally left or the result of disrepair, he cannot tell. And there, half-cast in the shadows, is Luke—clad in soiled pajamas, his round face dirty and tear-streaked beneath a mop of blonde hair. . . but now he is silent . . . exhausted, perhaps: and perhaps he has simply run out of tears and a voice from crying.

Tenderly Obi-Wan crouches down before him, but does not touch him yet, lest fear still have hold of the boy. Instead he reaches out to him through the Force, tendrils of a lullaby he once overheard Beru singing, assurances strung to the tune: _You are safe, Luke. I am a friend, and you will be alright._

Large, strong hands, out-held: softly: “May I?”

And the stocky little boy reaches out to him, tumbling into his arms. Those wide blue eyes, dark as the sky, have never left his own.

Hastily Obi-Wan fashions a sling out of Qui-Gon’s old robe, swaddling Luke in the crook of his left arm. Being down a hand is less than ideal—but only with the weight of the boy against him, only with his own body to shield him, wrapped up in his Master’s robe, will Obi-Wan find peace in the battle that’s surely to come. His right hand drifts to the hilt of his lightsaber . . . his mind quickly sorting through the reality of the situation . . . if he were to use it, who would tell? Beru already knows who and what he is . . . and the Tuskens—?

Years ago he had all but sworn never to use his lightsaber on Tatooine, not until the boy had his father’s blade and was strong enough to defend himself if trouble came—but now—

Luke is too important—

A scream breaks the eerie stillness, and Luke immediately begins to whimper, wriggling and twisting in the sling, clutching at Obi-Wan’s arm, bare tiny feet kicking at his sides, as if he wants nothing more than to run to the call.

_Beru!_

The cry came from their left; Obi-Wan ducks from the tent, lightsaber in hand but deactivated still. Another tent, larger than the first, and within it is Beru—but she is not alone—and if the raiders seemed to care little for Luke, rescuing his aunt will surely bring a fight down onto their heads.

The interior is dull, smoke-filled, lit not by a drop of light but a small fire kept burning in its midst, seeming to do little but add to the heat. Sure enough, a throng of raiders are crammed into the shelter, pressed in upon each other, thick, impenetrable. At the rear of the tent is Beru; her hands are tied, but with feet torn free of feeble knots she’s managing to hold her own, landing a series of fortunate kicks. Her cry, Obi-Wan notes with relief, seems more from rage than fear or pain: it is, oddly, females who are struggling to tie her.

“Where’s Luke?” Beru chokes out, as if the raiders either care or understand. Her eyes are like Owen’s—wide and wild, blind with emotion. “Where’s my—"

At his side the child reaches out, the wail of her name lost to a throat run dry and raw.

Without hesitation, framed by the firelight, Obi-Wan activates his lightsaber, hoping the glow of the blade, the energy pulsating from it, might save him some trouble. A few of the younger Tuskens slink past him, their fear roiling across the Force, slipping through the flap and throwing them all into stark relief as daylight so briefly flares inside. With a moment of shuffling, the females who had been occupied with restraining Beru are ushered out, leaving the adults, the boy, and ten or so warriors.

But now there is precious room to maneuver—

A warrior charges him, using the impact of his body in an attempt to throw the Jedi off balance, gaderffii stick at the ready should the blow knock him to his knees. Obi-Wan whirls away, edging closer to Beru, throwing her a warning glance.

_Don’t move._

In a delicate blur his lightsaber hums through the air, centimeters from her wrists—not close enough to burn, but close enough to char the dry and brittle ropes. With a savage jerk she works her hands free, frantically trying to rub some circulation back into her fingertips.

Obi-Wan twists from another attack, throwing a kick to a head that he scarcely registers, even as the tremors of the impact ripple through his bones. The motion brings him within reaching distance of Beru, who—to his shock and relief—takes the opportunity to unhook the blaster from his belt.

“My apologies,” he manages. “I would have handed it to you—”

“You just hold on to Luke.” Her face is grim. She is a gentle soul, Beru—the sense of her he gathers through the living Force is utter kindness—

And there, unspoken, the truth of it: perhaps he expected her to offer to hold Luke, to make for the speeder, but no—the boy is safer in his arms.

But even with the added foot-room, the tent is woefully cramped, and Obi-Wan must keep his strokes slight and precise to avoid deflecting Beru’s shots from their targets. Cradling Luke unbalances him. And yet he feels the Force flow through them—through the boy, who is quiet and still and solemn now—through his aunt, who has pursed her lips and aims with a steady hand, like the Jedi himself, to wound, not to kill—and through the Tuskens themselves. Through the hides that made the tent, bearing echoes of the creatures to whom they belonged. Every grain of sand, and even the heat of the distant suns—

Briefly he allows his mind to wander to the fact that they might be in the clear. If they can just get past these few remaining warriors, then they can retreat to the speeder and—

Until a savage strike is aimed at Luke, as if it’s finally understood that he doesn’t have the child with him for no reason.

Obi-Wan shifts, knowing he can’t avoid the blow—but he can, at least, keep the child free from harm. Dimly he registers the slice of the blade, the wrenching pain, the heat of his own blood, before the weapon is torn loose and whirled again, the clubbed end connecting with his shoulder—and that, at least, tears a cry from clenched teeth.

Only the sling of Qui-Gon’s robe and Luke’s hands gently tangled in the neck of his tunic keep them together now; that dislocated shoulder has torn the strength from his arm. Distantly he hears Beru call out his name—

His _name_ —

His blade hums and hisses; on the tips of his toes he turns again, connecting with the very warrior who just wounded him. A quick stroke relieves the owner of his stick—and, judging from his guttural howl, perhaps his arm as well.

Two more remain. From the corner of his eye he catches Beru’s hands shaking as they hold the blaster.

Two more.

In quick succession, Beru fires a barrage of shots, taking down one warrior: he tumbles forward, smoke rising from his chest, and Obi-Wan feels through the Force a sudden sickness in the young woman. She has never killed . . .

A kick with his off foot and a thrust from his blade leave the final raider unconscious, his weapon shattered. For a moment they stand there, fighting for breath, choked on the smoke and dizzy from the heat of the desert and that wretched, miserable fire.

But they can’t stay here—not even for a moment—

Obi-Wan deactivates his blade, clipping it to his belt and reaching for Beru, who has fallen to her kness, trembling and pale. She mouths soundlessly, staring in shock at what she has done. The blaster rattles dangerously within her grasp. Through the Force he offers _peace_ , offers _calm_ , feeling her shaking subside only slightly as he touches her hand.

“We might make the speeder before the others gather their courage and come after us.”

Unsteadily she finds her feet, dropping the blaster, stumbling over the bodies of their incapacitated foes. Obi-Wan offers her his free arm, his good shoulder, and together they make their way through the camp.

The Jedi fervently hopes that the raiders who fled have not counted on sabotaging their speeder as an act of courage—and thankfully it’s so. Why, he doesn’t know—but he’ll take any and all blessings now.

* * *

They find the moisture farm much as Obi-Wan had left it. Owen had managed to hold the raiders back, and perhaps it was from boredom they had fled. If his equipment is damaged, he still has his life—and as soon as the homestead is within sight, they can see him running towards them with reckless abandon, waving his arms in unspeakable joy.

* * *

“You’re hurt,” Beru whispers. She had not noticed in the fray, nor during their speeder flight. Something cold had settled in her bones, numbing her until reality was something she partook of as if from someone else’s eyes. It had not even crossed her mind to take Luke from his arms.

Obi-Wan gratefully takes Owen’s hand, dropping from the speeder. Luke has somehow fallen asleep, and the peace surrounding the boy through the Force feels better to him than would even bacta to his wound. Beru strokes at that mop of flaxen hair, exchanging a quick glance with Owen, who holds her close.

“Come inside,” the latter offers softly. “Please. You are our guest. We don’t have much, but please . . . let us treat your wounds.”

“For that I would be glad,” Obi-Wan murmurs, following them inside. “I believe the shoulder’s dislocated, and even a . . . even I might need some help.”

The interior of the domicile, half-dug into the ground, is blessedly cool. Beru sits him at the kitchen table while Owen fishes out a medkit from another room, then gently sets about untying Qui-Gon’s robe. Obi-Wan watches with admiration how steady her hands are now, and vaguely thinks that she would have made an excellent Healer in the Temple . . . or a caretaker of the youngest of initiates . . .

But Luke, sweaty and cranky, dressed in pajamas both soiled and stained with Obi-Wan’s blood, immediately begins to wail with what voice he has left when she tries to extricate him from the Jedi’s grasp.

“No!” he sobs; “No—no—I wanna _stay_ —”

“Hush, my love,” Beru murmurs, unperturbed. “We must help our friend get better, and clean you up . . .”

Luke merely shakes his head; he’s squirmed from her arms and clings to the hem of Obi-Wan’s tunic, staring up at her with all the defiance he can muster.

The Jedi reaches for his hand.

“Luke, you must listen to your aunt. I am not going anywhere. I will still be here when you’re cleaned up and rested . . . you’ve had a busy day, young one. Go on.”

The words seem to do the trick, for Luke lets go. Beru flashes him a grateful smile, ushering the boy into another room, when Owen emerges at last with a medkit. Obi-Wan unclips his utility belt, suspecting that the fabric of his tunic will only be a hindrance.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Owen offers, dumping the contents of the kit on the table and scrutinizing it with shadowed eyes. “It’s, uh . . . we need to replenish it . . . but the taxes on this stuff are so damn high; every time I go to Anchorhead I try to find something better, but Jabba . . . well . . .”

Obi-Wan begins to sift through the meager supplies with his good hand, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, the Hutts are cunning and ruthless. Whatever they can take from others, within a reasonable margin of danger to themselves—they will.”

Owen begins to peel at Obi-Wan’s tunic, trying to separate the fabric from his skin so as to get a good look at the wound, struggling not to jostle his shoulder. “Beru’s better at this than me,” he mutters absently, then heaves a sigh. “Look, I’d just as soon rather not . . .”

“It’s quite alright.”

“Better with vaporators,” Owen chuckles nervously. “Here, let me get Beru . . . I’ll take care of Luke . . .”

While Obi-Wan sits in the kitchen, he lets his eyes wander about the domicile, smiling as he imagines Luke sitting at the table . . . all the times he’s seen the boy and Owen playing together as the suns set, before the power was shut down . . . But at last there is nothing to distract him from the pain in his shoulder: he reaches for the Force, accepting his body’s discomfort and marveling at the first stirrings of healing . . .

Beru’s returning steps rouse him from meditation. Her face is weary, careworn, lined before its time. She is still so young . . .

“Owen sent me.” She frowns, staring at the table, suddenly self-conscious: there was little in the medkit worth much, even with skilled hands. “Well. It’s like he said, we don’t have much, but . . .”

She motions awkwardly, gaze slipping to the man seated at her kitchen table: his face is, for the moment, impassive, as if he is impervious to the gash that has soaked both his tunic and robe with blood . . . the memory of it on Luke’s pajamas sends a fresh shudder through her body . . . but she cannot lose her wits. No. He needs her help . . . and today, without him . . .

Beru draws a shaking breath. “What first?”

Obi-Wan shifts, wincing as something like ground glass sends a spear of pain through his shoulder. “The wound is deep, but not _quite_ as irritating.”

“Alright. What can I do?”

Again he admires her bravery, and offers her his left hand, releasing the sharp pain of the movement with his breath. “It’s quite simple.” Her grip is firm; he feels the sweat of her palms, the clutching of her fingers, but even as he notes her uncertainty he sees also her resolve. Despite the discomfort, he squeezes her hand gently. “Now you need to pull—firmly and steadily—but it need not at all be a violent thing.”

Beru nods, grimly, and he feels her gathering her strength, wills the Force to flow between them, lending her steadiness and calm. With a grunt of effort she does as instructed, and after a few moments the unmistakable _pop_ of the joint slipping back into place breaks the silence.

Beru drops his hand with a cry of shock, empathetic agony scrawled across her face, an apology half-formed on her lips. But Obi-Wan can only laugh, softly, relief sweeping through him. Gingerly he rolls his shoulder, feeling the muscles begin at last to loosen up, at least a bit; the wound from the Tusken’s blade is still another matter.

“It looks and sounds worse than it is, I can assure you . . .”

Beru sinks into the nearest chair, the color gone from her cheeks. “So you say.”

“You’re a Jedi,” Owen adds dryly from the doorway.

Obi-Wan—not unkindly—shakes his head. “Anyone can learn to regulate their response to pain, my friend.”

The three of them are still for a moment, Owen dropping into a chair beside his wife, reaching for her hands while she rests her head on his shoulder. “What a damn day.”

“I am surprised at the raiders’ attacking at dawn . . . That is a disturbing development, to say the least.” As he muses aloud, Obi-Wan finds at last the tube of antibac ointment he’d been hoping to encounter. But when his fingers toy with the cap, Beru holds up her hand.

“No. We need to clean that blood off you. I’m not sending you back to . . . wherever it is you come from . . . all bloodied up like that. You’ll attract a mess of nothing but sharp teeth. And speaking of . . . that robe . . .”

A sudden thought strikes Obi-Wan. “Keep it. Trim it down, and incinerate whatever would attract an unsavory guest. A good wash wouldn’t hurt the rest of it . . .”

“What for?” Owen interjects. “Why not just burn the whole damn—”

A breath, a hesitation so slight as to go unnoticed. “I want Luke to have it.”

“Something to remember you by.” Beru ducks her head, fighting a sudden swell of tears. She senses, somehow, that this robe is not merely a garment: it means _something_ to the Jedi, and that he would pass it on to Luke—even as nothing more than a blanket for a child still half-frightened of the dark—

The distance the Jedi’s kept has always troubled her. Not that she blames him; she understands that it’s his attempt to keep them as safe as possible. But he cares deeply for the boy . . . she can remember still the press of his hands as he laid little infant Luke in her waiting arms . . . Yes, something for Luke to remember him by. She has never seen Luke quite as calm as when this strange man from the stars held him . . . even today . . . amidst the terror . . . had he not watched that dancing blade of light with nothing but awe?

Quickly she realizes that her husband has fixed her with an incredulous gaze. “Owen, he’s still sad about that old blanket he got oil on—”

“Beru, he’s getting too old. He doesn’t need a—”

Beru stills her husband’s argument with a soft-edged glance, a plea for peace. They are both on the edge of an emotional precipice: today has not been kind, and now is not the time to have an argument.  “We have a guest, Owen.”

Silence, for a long moment, and both Owen and Beru find themselves unable to meet the cerulean gaze of the man who is as good as a stranger at their table.

And then Beru rises, slipping into the kitchen for a moment, emerging with a rag and a bowl of something surprisingly sweet-smelling. “A mild cleaning agent. For dishes, but . . . it will at least get the blood off. Then we can use the antibac ointment, and . . . I’m so sorry we can’t spare the water . . .”

“I am grateful for all the help you both have given me.” Obi-Wan nods pointedly to Owen, sensing the young man’s growing frustrations. Curious—for he’d never expected Owen to be one with a quick temper—

“You’ll need a clean tunic as well,” Beru murmurs, almost absently. “Owen—”

 “All I can give is one of my father’s old things.”

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

Owen grunts. “Not like they’re any use to him these days.”

When her husband disappears again, Beru gently helps Obi-Wan wriggle free of his tunic—a sodden, sweaty, bloodied mess it is. Keeping his garments neat and clean had always been a source of pride, although his lips twitch as he vaguely recollects following Qui-Gon into some posh hotel during a mission, and realizing only then that he’d stained his tunic with a bit of berry tart . . .

“By the stars,” Beru whispers.

The absence of his tunic, the softest sway of air against his skin, are suddenly cast into profundity: what must he look like to her, with the latticework of scars across his body? He can immediately tell from her face that this revelation—that the wounds he endured today were but two of an innumerable sum—is somehow far worse than the reality of the wounds themselves.

And at last, then, something gives—something he’s rather been expecting for the entire morning. Beru’s shoulders begin to shake, and when she turns to him again her eyes are wide and filled with tears. For a moment she cannot speak, just reaches for his hands; as he has to so many, the Jedi offers comfort, not merely by way of the living Force but also, and far more simply, by his presence. By the fact that he sits with her while she cries, as the horror of what has happened finally catches up with her . . . although he feels a twinge of sorrow that it was his own scarred body, bearing its echoes of violence done unto him, that brought her here.

“You are safe, and Luke is safe,” he murmurs finally. “And you did nothing wrong today.”

“The raiders . . .” She draws a shuddering breath. “That is a risk we all take, living here. I’ve heard the stories . . . and what happened to Shmi . . . but . . . I accept it . . . we all accept a hard life here, given to us or thrust upon us or chosen . . . no . . . That’s not what . . . that’s not what it is . . . is it? . . .

“I—” Her voice drops suddenly, a jagged whisper that he knows she will never again utter, not even to Owen. “I _killed_ —”

“Sometimes, even when we seek to preserve all life, our enemies give us no choice . . . all the more-so when we are protecting others . . .”

“A life for a life?” Beru shakes her head, that same numbness as had crept over her in the speeder beginning to return. She has no place to hold esoteric wisdom now. She can see only the holes that the blaster put in that raider’s chest, the way he toppled forward, lifeless, smoking . . . And the sway of it, the ugliness, all of it—the fear and terror—swell up, and something bitter is torn from her tongue. “I never would have thought I’d hear that from _you_ —from a Jedi.”

Immediately the words are regretted; when she lifts her head, blinking back tears, it is to find that Obi-Wan has fixed her with a gaze full of sorrow. He, too, has asked himself as much: he, too, has grappled with morality, and what he offers now is not the teaching of some mystic who cannot fathom that reality is colder than their gnostic truths.

“It is not such a simple equation . . . to take a life is never a trivial affair. But sometimes . . . if it is between the saving those we are sworn to protect, or sparing the life of an enemy who would show no equal mercy . . . ?”

Beru just shakes her head, reaching for the bowl, the rag, and begins to wipe the dried blood from his skin, paying special attention to the crusted edges of the ugly gash, lest too-rough a hand do more harm than good. And at last the antibac ointment, cool and soothing against the screaming wound; strips of linen wound around it, gently; the pressure feels surprisingly good. Obi-Wan can’t help but bow his head and sigh.

“Seems to me we should just shoot them all and be done with it, whenever they attack,” Owen mutters from the doorway yet again, a tunic folded across his arm. How long he has been there, neither of them knows. “Well, this’ll be big as hell on you, but it’ll keep the suns off your back, at least.”

He drops the garment on the table without ceremony. Beru has set aside the rag, bowl and ointment, and again he takes her hand in his. Both of them, the Jedi knows, are deeply shaken by what has happened—and who wouldn’t be? But Owen’s anger—even in that anger, surely he would see that implicit genocide isn’t the answer?

“Let me tell you,” Owen continues softly. “Let me tell you. That Skywalker had the right idea.”

The world is clouded and muffled for a moment as Obi-Wan carefully draws the tunic over his head, securing his utility belt once again. It takes a moment more for Owen’s words to strike home—but by the time they do, the young man’s found his voice again.

“My father loved Shmi. She gave him hope, gave him life, gave him light. And then they took her, and did who-knows-what . . . and then the boy came—her son . . . she always spoke of him . . . her little Ani . . . how he’d gone off to be a Jedi . . . And he came here and he went looking for her . . . we’d all given up hope, tried to talk him out of it, but . . . he insisted . . .”

Beru shifts in her chair, clenching her teeth; her cheeks are pale and there’s no hiding the tremors that rock her sturdy frame. Obi-Wan glances at Owen, hoping he’ll realize that now is not the time to relive such memories . . .

But Owen’s mind has carried him somewhere else entirely, blinding him—for just a moment—to his wife’s pain and terror, for anger can be such a cruel and terrible thing.

“He was too late. And then, you know, I heard him screaming to his lady friend, ’bout what he’d done to them. How he’d slaughtered them, he said—all of them. All the ones that hurt his mother. There were no innocents. So. Yeah. I think he had the right idea.” He puts his hand on his wife’s shoulder, and she seems younger then to Obi-Wan than ever. “You did the right thing, Beru.”

Numbness begins to creep through Obi-Wan’s veins, the weight of what he didn’t know and wishes now he could forget—but he forces himself to conceal it. And in the midst of the roiling sorrow, he feels Qui-Gon at his side— _< Peace, my Padawan; it is done, it is passed; do not dwell on what has been . . . Focus only on the present.>_

And the old truths come back to him: the skills of the Negotiator: quietly moving through interactions and hostility with grace and tact, dispassionate and impartial, but not without empathy or lacking in kindness. Darker is the truth that for just a moment, his body does not feel his own, and the words are as good as a stranger’s. “While I don’t deny the Tuskens’ claim to the desert, nor their beliefs that all water has been promised them . . . their use of violence is certainly not something I condone.”

“Damn straight,” Owen growls, slamming his fist down on the table. “They—”

“Uncle Owen?”

Luke’s voice, still cracked, but soft and sure, cuts short the words. All three adults turn—silent, uncertain—catching on the little boy’s silhouette. He must have tread on silent feet, or else the emotions stirred between them deafened them to his pattering step. He looks first at Obi-Wan, and then his aunt and uncle, his wide blue eyes encrusted with sleep.

“The man there says you shouldn’t be angry.”

Obi-Wan studies Luke closely, all the more confused when the child climbs up into his lap without the slightest hesitation. Surely after today he’d not want the comfort of a stranger but the familiarity of Owen and Beru—?

_And anyway—I said nothing—unless he could sense my thoughts?_

But no—Force bonds such as that always run two ways, and if Luke’s energy is strong, tangling with his, the boy’s throughts are not as clear.

_< . . . Master?>_

 “He says”—Luke yawns, leaning against the Jedi, burying his head in the crook of a solid, strong-sinewed arm—“that anger doesn’t make our problems go away. It just leads to the Dark Side.”

“What the hell—”

“ _Owen_ —”

Both of them have found their feet; Owen’s face is once again a mask of rage, his eyes glittering, fearful. He is not a small man, and his stature and strength—as well as raw emotion—give him a powerful presence indeed, so much so that Obi-Wan reflexively wraps an arm about a blissfully ignorant Luke. Beru, too, has risen—has laid a hand on Owen’s arm—

“What nonsense is this?” the latter spits. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” answers the Jedi truthfully—as if he would ever tell a lie, or even a half-truth. “This young one’s words are wise, but they did not come from me.”

“I know you—you Jedi can manipulate a mind. _What did you do_?”

Obi-Wan, nonplussed, holds out a hand in supplication—as he’s so often done . . . fixing his opponents with a steady gaze, quietening their blustering with soothing tones. And if he does not hold his lightsaber in the other hand, he still cradles Luke—

Defense enough.

“I assure you, Owen, I have told him nothing.”

“Why should I trust you, when it was you who took a boy away from his mother? Who promised him that he’d become a Jedi? Who filled his head with fool’s ideas, and training that just made him more powerful—without teaching him how to control it? Taking him away broke his mother’s heart! There wasn’t a day that went by without her speaking of him. None!”

Arguing will do more harm than good. Owen has no knowledge of Qui-Gon—his greatness, his flaws. What good is one name to another? What good is telling him that it was not Obi-Wan who willed his training—not at first?

“And it was you who brought us Luke—because father’s _dead_!”

Luke stirs fitfully, and Obi-Wan can sense the heightened thrum of his energy. No. Now is not the time. No child should hear this of their parents—it is too soon for such a truth—

“And then you brought him to our door and begged us to take him in and what could we say? He is our family. As good as my brother’s son! And you asked us to lie, to live a lie for his entire life—to cover up what it is that _you_ have done. Without you—”

“Owen, that’s _enough_!” Beru never strikes a tone but the words ring through the kitchen like the timbre of a bell, casting them all into stunned silence. After a moment Beru ducks her head, collecting her thoughts; only then does she continue, treading carefully. She is willing to spill her heart before a stranger because what has become of them, because of this, is weighing on them both . . . it is more than they can bear.

“Owen, he saved my _life_ today. _Luke’s_ life. We owe him everything. He brought us Luke when we—when we couldn’t—not after all those years and all that trying.” Her voice breaks and she wipes impatiently at a tear beginning to trickle down her cheek. “He brought us _hope_ , Owen. And if somehow Luke’s destiny isn’t on this farm . . . if it’s following his father to the stars . . . then what choice is that of ours?”

“I do not want him to follow his father,” Obi-Wan interjects softly, unable to keep his peace. “That is the _last_ thing I would ever wish for him. His path . . . That is why I want to train him. He could be in danger, and a danger to himself, if he’s not taught who he is, who he can be. The Force surrounds and binds us all, but it has both the Light and the Dark within it. It can do terrible things to a mind . . .”

Owen gives a noncommittal grunt. “He belongs here. With his family. Not following you on some damn fool’s crusade. Light and Dark, my ass. The galaxy’s unfair to all of us. Good men die and children starve and what the hell does it matter if we’ve got the Empire over our heads or else some posh Republic which can’t even be bothered to send the supposed peacekeepers, the Jedi, to worlds like ours—where it’s Jabba who runs the place? Where slavery exists? . . . No. Luke _stays_. Right here. With us.”

The Jedi glances at Beru, not for the first time wrenched by the reality of their situation, the impossible task that’s been asked of them. Her gaze has settled on Luke’s sleeping form, and he notes that she can scarcely meet his own eyes now.

There are a thousand things he wants to say, but Owen’s pain stills all of them against his tongue.

_Arguing will do more harm than good . . ._

“Thank you both for your hospitality,” he offers gently, shifting Luke; worn out from the morning, he slumbers on, completely unaware of the hands and well-intentioned hearts that seek to guide his destiny. “But I can see that my presence here is a disruption. You do not need any more difficulties today . . . to say the least.”

Leaving Luke in the arms of his aunt is like leaving a piece of himself behind, in a way that he can scarcely begin to understand, except to liken it to leaving his Padawan behind . . . but no, not yet, not that thought, it is too raw . . .

On a last-moment’s epiphany he fishes through the sodden, despicable heap of his tunic, drawing out the river-stone . . . his anchor . . . A shudder passes through him: how close has he come to losing both his Master’s robe and what has become his most cherished possession, besides the blade of light that is his life . . .

Beru rubs absently at the child’s back, humming to him softly, for as soon as he’s free of the Jedi’s arms he begins to whimper in his sleep.

Owen trails him like a shadow to the door; Obi-Wan can sense the young man’s disquiet, his regret, his shame; he has not conducted himself as he feels he should have—knows he should have . . . At the threshold he turns, giving Owen an unassuming smile. “You love them both very much. You are afraid to lose them.”

“I . . . reacted strongly to you. I do not take back what I said . . . but how I said it . . .”

“I understand, my friend.”

A twist of his heel and his back to the domicile before Owen’s voice catches him again.

“Obi-Wan—”

“Ben.” An awkward, if automatic, correction, no doubt unheard—and perhaps in this moment it isn’t important. The name does not feel his own, and perhaps it never will. Easy enough a refuge it would be, taking on a stranger’s name, as if to forget the past attached to his—but no—

“How did you know?”

And the Jedi turns, slowly; haloed by the midday suns, his face is all sharp shadows and blinding-bright light. “Luke called me—so I came.”

* * *

Qui-Gon’s stone is cool in the sweaty valley of his palm. Force-sensitive, it’s usually warm, weighted in a way that such a tiny stone should scarcely be . . . but as Obi-Wan begins to trek through the desert, awash with heat, almost blinding, that shift becomes a blessing. Cool and deep and dark, a refuge, and from such a little thing he regathers strength . . . welling through the Force, through the stone, a living river, cold and bright, knitting his wounded shoulder and numbing the pain.

At his side walks his Master, but the journey is a silent one.

* * *

“You should rest, my young Padawan.”

From the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan catches Qui-Gon’s furrowed brow, the stern set of his jaw. But he seems distant, somehow: faded, like the last reverberations of an echo . . .

The day has been whittled away by lengthening shadows, the suns chasing one another past the zenith long ago, by restless circles paced around a rough-hewn room. At last, exhausted, the former drops to the floor, hoping such a shadow might offer him slight comfort. Nothing, though—nothing; the tunic of Owen’s father is damp, the bandage wound around his shoulder uncomfortable and stiff.

Stillness, now: stillness and the search for peace, for a center: the stone still in his hands, he bows his head, reaching for the Force, willing his body to keep healing, apologizing to weary muscles and half-knit flesh that he let his emotions get the best of him.

No—that’s not just it.

If Qui-Gon has walked in his shadow through the desert, it is Anakin who follows him now, who sits at his side as a haunted, hollow shade. Owen’s words spill back to him, seeping through the cracks in every defense he’s built within his mind for moments such as this . . . moments that used to leave him crumpled on the floor, locked in living nightmares . . .

Even now as he sits and struggles for calm, he is shaking: no amount of will can make the tremors stop. Not even the stone can call him back because he remembers far more clearly the moment when he gave the stone to a young and bright-eyed boy—a boy who had looked on the stone with wonder, while Obi-Wan himself, at the same age, had merely scoffed—

And the stone left behind . . . the ruins of the Temple . . . one of the many things Anakin had left behind but somehow, somehow, that little Force-blessed  _rock_ tethered him to the reality he could not believe—the bodies around him, the holographic images . . . were real.

His hands clutch at it, white-knuckled; pain rises in his throat, his chest, greater than his shoulder ever was and for a moment he nearly screams for Bant, forgetting that her form can never step into this world . . .

Who is left?

Not the shadow at his side . . .

< _Help me, Master. >_

A broken cry between clenched teeth. Those words—

Qui-Gon reaches out—Obi-Wan can feel him through the Force, as if he, too, has caught his breath—but still, but still, he reaches out—begging his Padawan to take the hand that’s offered—the bond closer than brothers or lovers or the dearest of friends—

But it’s Anakin who flashes through his mind, a sad smile playing about his handsome face for an instant before his visage becomes distorted in fire and ash and blood: a monster staring up the hill at him—the sight he can never shake, not fully, from his mind—the truths that he will carry until his death—

And suddenly, viciously, something else tears through him—sharp, illusive flickers—but enough—

Some night on Tatooine; a Tusken camp—a heartbroken young man kneeling at his mother’s side—filled with grief-spun rage—

And by the glow of a blue lightsaber, its hum lost in the echoes of a primal scream—twenty, thirty dead—

The first step. That had been it.

How had he been so . . . oblivious? Ignorant? Willfully, willfully ignorant? Even after the battle of Geonosis, in a moment of calm, how could he not have _felt_ —

_< There is no ignorance; there is knowledge . . .>_

The Force surges through him, catching the very breath in his lungs, and Qui-Gon’s presence within it is as shattering as thunder, crumbling the darkness . . .

_< Concentrate only on your breath, my Padawan . . . on the here-and-now . . . You know now what has been but it is not in your control . . .>_

And the rhythm, the rhythm: the sway of the tide—and the memory of Bant slips through his mind—dear Bant—and if she cannot appear to his eye in this world, he knows, still, that she is there—

A shuddering half-inhalation, hitched, uncertain, held and released—and as the air leaves his lungs, slowly, almost imperceptibly, something loosens, lightens . . .

And so there is another breath . . .

And something stills the shaking—warmth and light swirling around him—the stone once again bright and warm in his hands—

His Master says nothing. He needs no platitudes, no offerings of sympathy, no assurances that it was not his fault. Silence, and the gradual deepening of breath. At last at his tongue dance the tenets of the Jedi Code, instilled into him since he could speak—the core of him—it must be—even in this darkness, it must be—

* * *

_A spray of stars above their heads. Perhaps they are at the heart of the galaxy, looking out—or at its farthest edge, searching for the center. Obi-Wan inhales, deeply, filling his lungs with air, thick and sweet and cool, life-affirming . . . and if he listens, very closely, he thinks he can hear the very songs of all those stars . . . can feel the thrum of worlds . . . immeasurable lives . . . the living Force, the cosmic Force, entwined. As ever and always they are—but sometimes, sometimes, one needs reminding._

_Qui-Gon’s arm wraps around his shoulders—and there is no pain—for even as sleep heals his body, here he is whole . . ._

<You will need a new robe.> _A smile, somber, quirks at the corners of his Master’s lips._

<I’m sure I can barter something in Anchorhead . . . >

_As if lack of a robe is really the point._

_A large hand threads deft fingers between his own._ <You kept _mine_ for all those years?>

<Yes, Master. To . . . remember you by.>

_Between them, without word, earnest and instant as thought, come images:_

_The night of the funeral, after, when Anakin lay at last asleep, his face tear-streaked . . . and Obi-Wan had pulled from his sole allotted drawer his Master’s robe . . . had buried his face in the fabric . . . had clutched it to him as tightly as he had his Master’s body: the last tangible remnant . . . but his face was dry . . . he could not weep . . . his grief had been well beyond tears. He had lost something of himself on Naboo—something far more than that terrible moment when he had felt the Dark Side surging through him, when he had struck down the Sith with_ sai tok _. . ._

_And all the nights afterwards, spread across the years: when he would slip on the robe instead of his own, unbeknownst to anyone (except perhaps Yoda): willing Qui-Gon to be with him because Anakin had somehow, untaught, unleashed the Darkness of Force Lightning on another Padawan . . . and he didn’t know just what to do . . . nor did the Council . . . for the boy tapped into the Darkness as readily as Light . . ._

_And he wore the robe to Mustafar, reaching out during that stowaway ride for Qui-Gon, pleading, begging for guidance, for something . . . anything . . . Where had the boy gone? The one whom his Master had been so desperate to believe in? Now what was he, but a Sith . . . ? What had he done but break the Code a thousand times, in large and subtle ways, and now he bore a shadowed name and the blood of children on his hands. His eyes were a stranger’s—and what he had done—what he had done—_

_Even in his flight to avoid Palpatine’s destroyer, even as his thoughts swam with saving Padme and her child—children, as they turned out to be—he had paused, a fractional second, to scoop up the robe—_

<And now it belongs to Luke,> _Qui-Gon trembles briefly—flickers through the Force—emotions without names, and there is nothing to be said. Not of what has been._

_Obi-Wan glances at his Master, watching with wonder as Qui-Gon at last breaks the silence with motion, reaching to gather some of the stars above them in his hand, a-swirl, gossamer illuminations, until they spin within his palm. Gently, then, the tiny galaxy is offered, pooled between their cupped hands and curled fingers: living, liquid light: water that will never slip between the cracks._

<I . . . do not need it now,> _he whispers finally. The stars scatter, flitting back to the unfathomable depths of the sky, and in some ways he’s glad of it, for all he wants to feel now is Qui-Gon’s hand in his. The entirety of the Force, it seems, coalesced into the man who can stride as flesh-and-blood through his dreams, and walk as a flicker of light at his side when he wakes. Who is with him, always . . ._

_No more the need for fabric and phantoms._

_Just this._

_The wheeling spray of stars, reflected in his Master’s eyes._

_The way Qui-Gon can smile through a kiss._

_The way their breathing matches, slow and deep, and different rhythms are caught by gentle hands. Whispers through their minds and soft cries at their lips._

_Clothing soft against their skin and then just skin, warm and affirming: a refuge: but the act is not a thing of the body—a paradox—or simple truth—luminous beings they are—_

They are.

_There is no end, merely the ebb and flow of love and warmth and pleasure shared between them. Rapture, yes—but never rapture solely unto itself, for its own satisfaction._

_It is a meditation and a prayer._

_There is no haste—not now—not as once there was. This moment is theirs, infinite and endless, and vaguely Obi-Wan wonders if something like this is what transcending death is like. Perhaps it is not a shadow under which one falls, but a rapturous light unto which one ascends._

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wondered why Owen goes from a perfectly kind human in Episode II (and III, if you count such a small but hopeful role) to a grouchy grumpy gus in Episode IV . . . 
> 
> Also: buried (partial) KOTOR quote! <3
> 
>  _Also_ , forgive me, but I'm implicitly retconning the location of Qui-Gon's funeral. It's never made sense to me that it's held on Naboo. Coruscant makes much more sense . . .


End file.
